His Fingers are an Alphabet, His Skin is a Verb
by storybycorey
Summary: Written for the XFwritingchallenge Prompt: Touch I'm not sure that he even realizes it, realizes he's speaking words, phrases, and paragraphs with just the slightest brush of his thumb, the smallest glance of his hand. And I don't think he realizes how desperately I yearn for more.


I've never considered myself bilingual. Foreign languages don't slide off my tongue as easily as they do for others. In school, my Spanish textbook and I were very well-acquainted, spending nights together too many times to count, engaged in a deliciously sordid study affair. And while these late night make-out sessions did result in good grades, the relationship ended badly, and I regrettably didn't retain much in my adult life.

I could probably fill a bookshelf with the volumes of Latin I learned during med school, but unfortunately, medical terminology and the Latin language are two entirely different beasts. I'm actually quite adept at memorization, and that's really all that's needed when distinguishing between Febris Remittens, Febris Verminosa, and Febris Puerperalis.

But alas, none of that amounts to the mastery of another language. That extraordinary ability to take something foreign and transpose it in your mind until it is no longer foreign, until it is understandable, even instinctive.

No, I wouldn't consider myself bilingual, not in the traditional sense of the word.

But in a non-traditional sense, I have come to realize that I am indeed.

For, through the years, I have become completely fluent in one of the most beautiful languages ever spoken. One that is extremely complicated and particularly intricate.

One that only I can translate, only I can understand.

It is a language spoken to me alone, in hushed whispers and barely-audible utterings. And it is exquisite.

It is the language of Mulder's touch.

From our very first meeting, I felt it. A secret message meant only for me, spoken not in words, but in the strength of his grip, the slide of his fingers.

The self-assured, cocky attitude of his greeting was in complete contrast to the exchange I felt when I shook his hand. Whereas his words were designed to push me away, his touch told me of his warmth, his intrigue, and perhaps even of his need.

And the next time his skin touched my own, it spoke even more clearly. The whisper of his fingers against my back was a beginning, a prelude, an offer. An invitation to join him in his quest, to stand by his side, to become a part of the most amazing journey I will ever know. And as I burrowed my face against his neck in relief, I told him in my own way that I accepted.

As the years have progressed, I've become even more adept at understanding him, at recognizing the meaning behind every touch. I rarely even need to check my translation book any more. I'm not sure that he even realizes it, realizes he's speaking words, phrases, and paragraphs with just the slightest brush of his thumb, the smallest glance of his hand.

I don't think he realizes. That his fingers are an alphabet and his skin is a verb. In this beautiful complex sentence of a relationship we navigate every day.

That the curve of his body whispers secrets in my ear, every time his hand guides me from a room.

That the fold of his fingers overwhelms me with promises, each time he holds my hand.

That the breath from his throat tells me a story, whenever his lips graze my cheek.

That the press of his forehead staggers me, every time it slurs against my skin.

I don't think he realizes any of it.

And I don't think he realizes how desperately I yearn for more. How I ache at the thought that his hardened chest has never held a conversation with my bared back. That his cock has never engaged in a debate with my belly. That his tongue has never shared a secret with my clavicle.

I know he wants for these things, too. He's told me time and again through brushes and strokes and nudges, wordless declarations transferred from his skin to mine.

Both of us, longing for more. And both of us, afraid to speak of that longing out loud, afraid to let our words touch the air, lest they dissolve into the atmosphere and hang above our heads, reminding us every day of their existence.

But I'm so tired. Tired of pretending, tired of resisting, tired of translating every touch into words that cannot be spoken.

I'm finally ready to move forward. To tell him with fingers and lips and tongue and pelvis. To open the dictionary of my body to him and let him read between the lines.

God, I hope he's able to translate.

….

The feeling of my knuckles rapping at his door is oddly arousing. The nerve endings in my skin are over-sensitized, anticipating what is possibly yet to come.

I shift my weight between my feet, anxious and impatient, knowing if I don't do this now, I may never have the courage to try again. What if he doesn't understand? Doesn't recognize what I'm trying to tell him? I don't know that I'm ready to use my voice, to put into words all that I feel, all that I want.

The sound of his shuffling on the other side sets my heart racing. Oh God, what am I doing?

But as he opens the door to me, I know I have made the right decision. He stands before me in sweatpants and a bared chest, an invitation just waiting for a response. His golden skin begs for me to touch it, and my fingers flex involuntarily as I step self-consciously inside.

He mumbles something about stepping out of the shower and going to grab a shirt, but before he can move, I've stopped him. "No!" I say quickly, and without preamble, my hand has taken the first step. We both look down as my fingers brush against his abdomen, lightly at first, then more firmly as the brush dissolves into a full-handed caress.

His muscles contract beneath my palm, and I'm mesmerized by the sensation. Fluid, alive. "Take me, Mulder," I try to say with the warmth of my skin. "I want you, Mulder," I try to say with the weight of my hand. "Oh God, please, Mulder," I try to say with the stroke of my fingertips.

The longer we stand, the more my breath quickens, but I can't tear my eyes away from the bridge between our bodies, my hand upon his belly. And the moment stretches forever, until the place where I'm touching is pulsing and vibrating beneath me.

He knows, he knows, I think, because there's no way this energy could exist if it weren't mutual.

I'm about to raise my eyes, to confirm his understanding, when his hand reaches roughly across his body to take hold of mine. He presses them both against his ribs, and they rise and fall with his breaths, as strident as my own.

And then I feel it. His touch, speaking to me as it always does, and I'm overwhelmed by what it says. "Are you sure, Scully?" squeezes his fingers. "I've waited so long for you, Scully," presses his palm. "I want you, Scully," curves his wrist.

I tear my eyes from the conversation hovering between our bodies to finally look at him, and any doubts I had are quickly forgotten. For his eyes speak just as clearly as his touch, and my knees come close to buckling at the intensity.

Without breaking our gaze, I slide my hand from his chest and quickly unbutton my blouse, wanting, needing, desperate for his fingers on my body. And as soon as the cloth has slithered to the floor, there they are, fingers, hands, palms, and wrists, engulfing my torso, grazing the skin and telling me stories I've ached to hear for years.

I want to do the same for him, so I allow my hands to speak, speak, speak, to whisper all my secrets into all his hidden places, the curve under his armpit, the cove behind his ear, the dip at the small of his back.

And once we've begun, the thought of stopping is unbearable. We allow other parts of our body to join, our lips, our tongues, our teeth. The more we touch, the more elaborate our conversation, full of adjectives and adverbs, prepositions and interjections. We take turns pulling each other into the bedroom, circling and tugging, each wanting to get there first. And once through the door, we finish what we started.

To someone listening from the outside, our lovemaking may sound unusual, devoid of hunger, devoid of passion, for we speak no words out loud. There are gasps and sighs and moans, and the frantic slap of bodies coming together again and again, yet no words are spoken.

But that perception couldn't be further from the truth. Because the things we say with only our skin are amazing. "You're incredible," "I adore you," "Oh God, please, more, more," and a million other things that could never be put into words. Things that could only be spoken between pieces of flesh, warm and molten as they slide together for the very first time.

It is not until later, as we lay in each other's arms, that we finally allow our voices to fill the air. I tell him about his skin, how it flows and communicates and speaks to me. How I understand him even without words. How I hope I can do the same for him.

And his answer surprises me as much as it fills me. "Scully," he whispers against my throat, "I have an entire dictionary of your touches in my head. An encyclopedia of your caresses, an atlas of your skin. I've relied on your touches from the first day we met."

Tears fill my eyes as I raise my hand to his cheek. "I love you," I tell him with my fingertips.

His lips slide beneath my jaw, and he murmurs, "I know..."


End file.
